


Midnight

by linndechir



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're fighting a lost war and some nights neither of them can sleep, but that's not always a bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the latest gameofships prompt on LJ. This was supposed to be a PWP, but it ended up with more angst than porn, so I'm not really sure what to call it anymore.

Jon shifted in the darkness, closer to Stannis and the warmth of his body now that the fire had almost gone out. Placed a kiss on the back of his neck, so light that he hoped it wouldn't wake him, but Stannis still twitched and turned his head a little.

“You should be sleeping, Snow,” he said gruffly, but there was an odd note of affection in his voice at times like these. Jon didn't know if it was because the king just liked him better when he wasn't arguing with him, or if sleepiness made even Stannis Baratheon lower his guard.

“So should you, Your Grace,” Jon replied and kissed his neck again, just behind the ear. He was taken by surprise when Stannis turned around to face him, rather quickly for someone who should have been half asleep moments before, and pulled Jon into his arms. He shook his head mutely, but Jon knew what he meant. The lack of light in the room made it somehow easier to meet his eyes. “Stannis.”

The name still felt unfamiliar in his mouth, even weeks after he had first shared Stannis' bed. Not because Jon felt like he didn't know him well enough to use his first name, but more because the king barely ever allowed himself to be simply Stannis, not the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, not whatever fate his Red Priestess had burdened him with. Most men had wishes and hopes and dreams, and they tried at least to make them come true, but Stannis was all duty, so devoted to doing what had to be done that he never seemed to waste a thought on what he wanted. 

_He wants this. It's the one indulgence he allows himself._

Jon said Stannis' name again, more firmly this time, as if to remind him that there was more to him than the heavy duty of his crown. Stannis was hard enough to read even in broad daylight, let alone in almost complete darkness, but his body language was clear enough, the way he shifted towards Jon, his hand tightening on Jon's hip, the way he leant in as if to kiss him. But Stannis didn't roll on top of him, like Jon expected, like he usually did. Instead he grabbed Jon and pulled him into his lap as he sat up. Jon actually gasped quietly, both because it was an uncharacteristically bold thing for Stannis to do in bed, and because the strength in Stannis' gaunt body surprised him every time he felt it. War seemed to have melted the flesh from his body, but although Jon saw far more bones jutting out than seemed healthy, the king was anything but weak.

Jon held on to him awkwardly, arms thrown around Stannis' shoulders. Stannis' arms steadied him easily and held him in place, and somehow this embrace felt almost more intimate than when Stannis pressed him down into the mattress. It felt more tender than desperate, even though Stannis' fingers dug into his back as if he was afraid Jon would slip away if he didn't hold him tight enough. Jon could feel Stannis' cock against his thigh, but he wasn't hard. Didn't even seem to want anything but to hold on to Jon for now, hands roaming over his back as if to map his skin, as thoroughly as if he wanted to remember every scar and blemish on it. 

So Jon simply cradled Stannis' head in his hands, ran his fingers over the smooth skin, through what bit of hair remained at the back of his head. For a moment he wondered what Stannis had looked like when he had been younger, with a full head of black hair. Wondered if he had looked less gaunt then, less exhausted. Less like a man who was killing himself for his duty. He couldn't even imagine what a younger Stannis might have dreamt of, what he had hoped for, before he had realised that no one cared about his dreams or wishes, and resigned himself to his duty.

Stannis' lips moved against Jon's neck and disrupted his brooding, and Jon thought he heard Stannis mutter his name. His first name, even, and Stannis used that rarely enough, even at night. Jon groaned quietly, and his back arched under Stannis' hands. Part of him felt guilty for wanting more right now, when Stannis seemed just desperate for any human touch at all, but Jon was young, and the touch of Stannis' calloused hands was bringing back memories of earlier that night, of other nights when those hands had shoved him into walls, grabbed his clothes or his hair or his neck while Stannis' mouth had clashed against his. And after all it had been Stannis who had pulled him close, who kept him there even as Jon began squirming in his lap, who didn't stop him now when Jon reached down between them to wrap his fingers around Stannis' cock.

There was something slow and languid about it, and it felt odd to do this when neither of them was angry, when they weren't pushing and pushing until one of them snapped and continued their argument with hands and lips rather than words. Jon would have almost called it tender, as tender as Stannis' hands ever managed to be, hard as they were, so unused to touching anyone, too rough at one moment, too careful the next, always expecting rejection, anticipating it one moment and trying to fight it the next. It made Jon feel like there was more to this than two angry desperate men who were fighting a lost war, and even though he knew that none of this mattered in the great scheme of things, it made him feel safe, if only for a short hour in the middle of the night. 

He came with Stannis' lips on his face, kissing the scars that sharp claws had left on Jon's skin, scars that Stannis' hands and mouth found almost every time they were together, and while Jon never understood why Stannis liked to touch them so much, he hardly minded it, even welcomed the hot breath on sweaty skin, the scratch of Stannis' late-night stubble against his face.

They didn't move for a long time afterwards, arms wrapped around each other, uncomfortably aware of the mess between them, but unwilling to move, not just yet, not when they both knew that they would hardly get another moment like this soon, if ever. Stannis sighed against Jon's shoulder, but he was less tense than before, seemed less likely to jump up and spend the rest of the night pacing through the room. Jon felt like he should tell him to go to sleep, that they both needed the rest, but it was so quiet that his voice would have felt too loud and too jarring, so he didn't say anything, just curled up in Stannis' arms with his head resting on his king's shoulder.

He must have fallen asleep at some point during the night; when he woke up, so late in the morning that a sliver of light already fell through the window, he was lying under the blankets and furs again, Stannis' chest pressed against his back, his arms wrapped around Jon's body. Stannis was sleeping peacefully, untroubled by nightmares for once, if his slow breathing was any indication. Jon covered Stannis' hand on his chest with his own, but this time he took care not to wake him.


End file.
